“You Aren’t Allowed to Write About Me.”

If by aren’t allowed, you mean you forbid it then who are you to forbid?

If by write you mean think, tell stories, try to understand, to recreate you in a way that isn’t such a jackass, I’m sorry but you can only be improved and you’re missing out.

The you on the page is so much better than the you in life.

If by me you mean just you, I’m sorry but stories (even characters, even real-life characters) are bigger than just one me, just one you, just one.

None of us are just one.

Why don’t you try to imagine what it’s like to not have a Lexus and your back shaved? Why don’t you try to imagine what it’s like to listen to you asking someone if they are ‘really an American,’ or telling someone that they look like a pumpkin because they’re wearing an orange dress. What it’s like to hold a bouquet and know that it will wilt, to go in the shower and pray for warmth or even water? Why don’t you imagine what it’s like to live bigger than who you are, trying to push into who you are meant to be? Imagine that’s more than a Lexus. Why don’t you imagine?

I am not allowed to write about you.

I write about you constantly.